


A Million Words

by tiptoe39



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:22:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon is the consummate professional. But the man in that room had all the rationality and reason of a mad bull.  Given, if the tables were turned, Illya knows he would be half out of his mind with worry. But then again, Illya lost his heart to Napoleon long ago. Napoleon doesn't -- can't possibly -- feel the same about him.</p><p>But what else explains this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Words

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely Hils gave me the following bunny: 
> 
> "Illya finds camera footage of Napoleon being all 'if you've hurt him then I'll hurt you' and he's not sure whether to be touched or turned on. Maybe both :D"
> 
> This is what ensued.
> 
> Thank you Hils and Sweet_Exile for betas and encouragement, and to the rest of the MFU fandom for being amazing.

Illya's been in this position before. Too many times, to be truthful, and it gets tedious after a while. It starts with a well-placed enemy dart or syringe, or simply a knockout blow to the head. The next thing he knows he's in a prison, awaiting imminent death or more likely rescue. It annoys Illya. He doesn't much relish being the damsel in distress. And Napoleon's all kinds of insufferable after he rescues him.  
  
But rescue him he inevitably does, somehow or other, and Illya's sure he will again. So he's not terribly upset, being stuck in this cell, with the condescending gaze of yet another villainess upon him. This one is named Dalia, and she's quite the formidable opponent. She's been playing them for days, trying to extract the exact coordinates of a top-secret meeting.  
  
"My dear Mr. Kuryakin," she says, her perfect lips curling upward, "being that you are such a distinguished guest, I'm going to offer you a special bit of hospitality. Something I'm sure you will deeply enjoy."  
  
"I can hardly wait," Illya deadpans.  
  
She sidles up to the far wall and presses a small panel on it. The wall opens to reveal a square gray screen -- a monitor. "I'm sure Mr. Solo will be along shortly to fetch you," she says. "I thought you might enjoy seeing his demise with your own eyes." She presses a button and an image appears on the monitor. It appears to be the sitting room they dragged Illya through on his way to this dingy dungeon. "Do enjoy the show."  
  
Illya glares at her. "So considerate of you."  
  
He's left alone, and desperation to escape turns to bored resignation after he's exhausted all available options. He sits on the edge of the low bed, more of a bench than anything, and gazes blankly at the monitor. In the sitting room on the screen, Dalia walks back and forth occasionally, but there's no other motion, and Illya feels as though his eyes are going to glaze over. If Napoleon would just hurry up and get here, perhaps he won't die of boredom before they even get a chance to torture him.  
  
At last, just as evening falls, there's a flurry of activity on the monitor. Men rush through the room and out the front door. The little speaker rattles with the tinny sound of gunshots, and Illya's captor sits down on a low couch, arranging her skirt, waiting. When Napoleon comes through the door, he looks somewhat the worse for wear. Illya sits forward, a little concerned.  
  
Napoleon leans forward onto his knees and pants for a minute. "Illya," he says in a low voice. "Where is he?"  
  
She rises from her couch. "Oh, my," she says, all innocence. "Is that you, Mr. Solo? I've been so terribly frightened. Hurry, take me away from this place. I don't know what they'll do to me."  
  
Illya remembers now: This woman has been stringing Napoleon along, playing unwitting accomplice to Big Bad THRUSH. It's because Illya discovered the rotten truth that he's been imprisoned.  
  
But Napoleon appears to have seen through the ruse at last. He raises his gun. "Dalia," he says to her, "I'm sorry to inform you that the game is over. Now, you will show me to Illya, if you please."  
  
"Oh, but Mr. Solo, the game is far from over." She smiles, wide enough that Illya can see it even from the terrible angle. "I can have Mr. Kuryakin returned to you, of course, but only for a price."  
  
"I've deeply enjoyed our time together, Dalia, but at this moment you are trying my patience," Napoleon says, thrusting his gun forward in a prodding motion. "I'll ask again: Let Illya go."  
  
"And I'll tell you again," she answers coolly. "Not without the coordinates."  
  
"Do you think I won't shoot you?"  
  
"No, I'm sure that you will." She lifts her hand, and from somewhere in the room there is a loud bang. Napoleon jumps, and stares at the floor beside him. A sniper, hidden behind one of the rich tapestries that line the walls of the sitting room, has taken a shot and deliberately missed.  
  
Napoleon aims his gun at the source of the shot, but Dalia tsks at him. "Do you think there's only one?" she says. "I could have you shot six different ways if I wanted it. Now do sit down, Mr. Solo, and talk to me about the coordinates."  
  
Carefully, he sits, his gun still trained on her. She sits beside him. Illya looks down briefly and finds his fist is clenched. This is indeed a novel form of torture, forcing him to watch Napoleon in trouble. Illya's never felt so powerless, or so much like a terrible nuisance. If it weren't for his stupidity, Napoleon wouldn't be in this pickle.  
  
"You do realize," Napoleon says, "that if you kill me you'll never know the coordinates. Illya hasn't been told them."  
  
"So true," Dalia says. "Which is why I won’t kill you first. We'll start with your partner instead. Don’t worry, it will be slow. And creative." She leans in and murmurs something very low to Napoleon, and his face fills with horror.  
  
"You wouldn't dare," he says. His voice has gone very soft and very dark. Illya's skin prickles.  
  
"Wouldn't we?"  
  
"Now see here." Napoleon's face is devoid of the usual debonair levity that Illya's so used to. Unsmiling, his eyes dark, he brandishes the gun again. "You will not touch a hair on Illya's head, or you'll regret ever having crossed me. If you really want those coordinates from me, the first thing you'll do is let Illya go. Do you understand?"  
  
There's something quietly powerful about Napoleon in this moment. Illya has to catch his breath, and he feels a little hot. Damn his infatuation with the man. He was sure it would subside as they spent time in the field together, but it's only grown as the years have gone past.  
  
Dalia yawns. "You act like you have the upper hand here, dear," she says.  
  
"Yes, well..." Napoleon's eyes glitter. "Perhaps I do."  
  
In a flash he's knocked her forward and off the sofa. A rifle shot sounds. Illya springs to his feet and runs to the screen. "Napoleon!" he shouts, as though his partner can hear him through the wires. Damn idiot, what is he doing? Is he trying to get shot? There’s a heart-dropping moment where Napoleon doesn’t move, and Illya thinks he’s been killed on the spot.  
  
But in another second Napoleon’s up, grabbing Dalia by the throat and pulling her against his body, a living shield. His gun presses against her temple. "Don't shoot, you fools!" Dalia shouts to the hidden snipers.  
  
"Illya," Napoleon says, his voice just above a mutter. "Take me to him. Now."  
  
* * *  
  
The ride home is a blur. Illya vaguely recalls Napoleon sweeping into the cell and depositing Dalia in Illya's place, pulling Illya out with him. Illya remembers staring at him, dumbfounded, and Napoleon having to repeat "Are you all right?" three times before getting an answer.  
 He has a muddled recollection of the way they fought and dodged their way out of the mansion, of shooting somebody and knocking somebody else out of the way as they made their escape.  
  
He stares at the New York streets and buildings as they pass by, staid and twinkling in the lights of evening. Every store window bathed in sleepy, dim light, as though this is just another ordinary evening. Illya envies them that ignorance. His world's a far different place than it was an hour ago.  
  
There was madness in Napoleon's eyes tonight, something Illya has only very rarely seen. At that moment, when he took the chance that could have ended him, Napoleon wasn't thinking of his own safety. Or of the mission’s objectives. What was he thinking of, then? Was he thinking at all?  
  
Napoleon is the consummate professional. But the man in that room had all the rationality and reason of a mad bull.  Given, if the tables were turned, Illya knows he would be half out of his mind with worry. But then again, Illya lost his heart to Napoleon long ago. Napoleon doesn't -- can't possibly -- feel the same about him.  
  
But what else explains this? What could it be, if not Illya himself, that made Napoleon snap? A flame of possibility lights in Illya’s heart, and he tries hard to extinguish it. All he has to do is remember that Napoleon’s gone similarly mad for any number of women in his life. But that only sparks the candle further. How very many times Illya has wished, secretly and silently, that Napoleon would look at him like he does his women.  
  
Now, as the car comes to a rest outside Illya's apartment and Napoleon walks him up the three flights of stairs, Illya forces his head out of the clouds, and his injuries from the fight begin to throb. He unlocks the door and allows himself to be steered to an easy chair and planted there. Napoleon heads off to the bathroom and returns a moment later with bandages and a wet washcloth.  
  
The cloth is cool against Illya's forehead, and eases the sting of the laceration where Illya took a grazing swing of a thug's knife. Napoleon stands over him, running his fingers across Illya's scalp until he finds the swollen bump where Illya was initially clobbered. "That'll probably hurt for a few days," Napoleon murmurs, moving the washcloth up to rest against the lump. Illya's head throbs, and he flinches, hissing. "There, there," Napoleon counsels, "stay still."  
  
"I'm fine," Illya hears himself say. "You've no need to fuss about me."  
  
Napoleon smiles. "Indulge me."  
  
"That was a foolish move," Illya chides. "You could have gotten yourself killed."  
  
"Ah, yes." Napoleon's voice is gentle, with just a hint of laughter in it. "You got a chance to watch the festivities. I hope I was entertaining?"  
  
Illya stands, pushing Napoleon's hand away. "Yes, very, excepting the part when you nearly died."  
  
" _Nearly,_ " Napoleon echoes. "I'm all right. You, on the other hand, are hurt and need to rest."  
  
"Pfft." Illya blows a derisive blast of air through his teeth. "Are you always so reckless, when I'm in trouble? You should show a little more restraint. I'm just as expendable as any other agent."  
  
At this, Napoleon stops. He frowns, his brow furrowing into a knot, then lifts his hand once more to Illya's forehead. "Not to me," he says softly.  
  
It's just the glimmer of hope Illya doesn't need. All at once he feels as though his chest is collapsing in on itself. Gazing at Napoleon, he's struck by a wave of emotion that tightens his throat and makes his hands burn with want. Clenching them into fists, he tries to keep still.  
  
But the question is burning inside his head again: why? Why has Napoleon done all of this, and why does he continue to do it? That quiet, dim candle of possibility is still burning inside him, and when he catches Napoleon’s gaze, the gentle affection there is enough to melt the iciest Russian heart. In a whisper, he’s moving forward, closing the gap between them. His mouth finds Napoleon’s, a soft kiss, tentative and chaste.  
  
He expects to pull away, to pass it off as a friendly gesture. But something happens right then, just as their lips part, and he’s drawn back to Napoleon’s mouth in an instant. The washcloth falls to the floor. Napoleon slides his arms around Illya, pulling him into a tight embrace, kissing him deeper. The bottom drops out of Illya's world and he's floating, flying in Napoleon's arms with that soft sweet mouth pressed to his.  
  
The kiss, dear God, the kiss goes on and on, Napoleon's lips parting from his for bare instants only to come down again twice as hard and possessive. It's as though Illya has tapped some well deep within him, and Napoleon's overflowing with affection and warmth. Illya clings as hard as he can, terrified of what happens when it all ends, when they come back to themselves.  
  
Napoleon's mouth travels from his lips to his jaw to his ear, and Illya hears his own name murmured there. What has he unleashed? Or is this how Napoleon is in passion with all his women? Is it rote for him? If so, Illya can see why women fall for him so easily. He knows just when to move, what to whisper and how to hold a lover. The thought is terrifying, and Illya thinks he may black out. He pushes away, shoving Napoleon back with two spread palms. The separation sends him reeling, and he collapses back against the easy chair, the world spinning around him.  
  
He pants and looks up at Napoleon. "I apologize," he mutters. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought."  
  
Napoleon licks his lips. "I don't think that was a matter of a blow to the head," he says.  "Rather, I'd say there was much more heart involved."  
  
Illya laughs bitterly. "We are U.N.C.L.E. agents," he quips. "We can't afford to have hearts."  
  
"Illya," Napoleon starts. He steps forward.  
  
"No." Illya raises a hand to stop him. "This was my fault, Napoleon, my moment of madness. I was simply... moved by what I saw tonight, how you fought for my release." He's shaking now, his whole body overcome by minute tremors. The lie tastes terrible in his mouth, and the shame chokes him up. "Perhaps you should go."  
  
"Of course, if that's what you want," Napoleon says, his voice so terribly gentle it hurts.  
  
"Tomorrow we can start again, pretend this never happened." The trembling won't stop, and Illya looks away, not wanting to catch Napoleon's eye. "I can't imagine what you must think of me."  
  
"I don’t think anything differently of you, Illya," Napoleon says quietly. "The only question I have is why we haven't done this before."  
  
Illya's trembling stops all at once. He turns to Napoleon and stares.  
  
Napoleon drops to his knees in front of the easy chair. He lifts one hand and dusts fingertips over Illya's jaw, a spot he had kissed moments before. "Do you think this is the first time I've thought about this?" he says. His eyes are half-lidded and his expression unerringly gentle. "Do you think I would have done all that for any other partner?" Illya flinches. Napoleon cups his jaw in a strong palm. "Illya. You've just made me a very happy man. Don't take it all away."  
  
"You've lost your mind," Illya manages, his voice weak.  
  
"Oh, yes." Napoleon's smile is the beautiful, bright kind that's always made Illya's heart twinge. "Very long ago, I'm afraid. And my heart with it."  
  
Napoleon pushes forward now, sliding his body between lllya's knees, bringing their faces nose to nose. Illya breathes shallowly, drinking in the closeness as he's never dared to before. He's having trouble accepting that he can have this, that it's not all a cruel joke and will be snatched away in a minute.  But Napoleon's expression is endlessly kind, and his gaze remains on Illya's face, searching for an answering smile or more.  
  
Illya has never been able to deny that face. He leans in, touches his lips to Napoleon's again, tentative. Sweetness spills through him, and he fights the urge to open his mouth to the kiss, slide out of the chair and press his body to Napoleon's.  
  
"Yes," Napoleon murmurs, low and slow. His palms slide over Illya's face, one hand digging into Illya's hair and tugging. Illya follows its lead, allowing their kiss to deepen. Napoleon's tongue dabbing at the corners of his mouth is like a little lick of flame. A sound finds its way up from deep inside him, and Illya lets it vibrate into Napoleon's mouth. Napoleon hums in answer. Illya loses control and comes tumbling out of the chair into Napoleon's arms.  
  
It's not a minute before he's on the carpet, Napoleon's body pressing him flat, weight and heat everywhere and kisses burning up his mouth and neck. Illya wraps his arms around Napoleon and holds on tight. He's dizzy with sensation. How many painful nights has he spent dreaming of this? How many times has he looked away as Napoleon kissed some beautiful woman, trying not to let the bitter sting of his heart overwhelm him? How many women has he himself romanced, looking for a spark of electricity that never quite caught fire? And does any of it matter anymore, in the light of this new reality?  
  
"Napoleon," he whispers, unsure which of the million words in his mind he should say next. Napoleon slows his assault on Illya's neck and whispers a kiss across the corner of his mouth, then square on his lips. Illya looks up and Napoleon's face fills his field of vision, so close and so real. The smile there melts him entirely.  
  
"Too much?" Napoleon says, brushing a finger against the lump on Illya's head.  
  
"Not enough," Illya replies.  
  
Napoleon's smile widens into an all-out grin. He rises to his knees and pulls Illya up with him.  
  
Wordlessly, both smiling, they wander from Illya's sitting room into his bedroom. Illya pulls him through the door with a kiss, tugging him by both hands toward the bed. Napoleon follows his lead, that beautiful enigmatic smile still on his face, eyes trained on Illya. The look makes Illya nervous. He sits on the bed. “Napoleon,” he starts, averting his eyes. “Perhaps we should talk about--”  
  
Napoleon drops down to sit next to him, framing his face in two cupped hands. “We’ve been talking for years,” he says. When Illya can’t find words to answer, Napoleon smiles. “Better,” he says, nodding, and pulls Illya into another kiss.  
  
The million words in Illya’s mind jumble into an incoherent mess. They lie on his tongue, passive and ready to be tasted. When Napoleon’s tongue slides against his, he could swear he feels them melting into their mouths like sugar. Illya drags his thumb along Napoleon's cheek, finally mapping with his fingers the terrain he's gazed at for so long. Napoleon gives a soft sigh, the most vulnerable sound Illya's ever heard from him. In this moment everything seems open between them. Years of hiding, wishing, hurting bared, and maybe Illya doesn't have to say anything at all.  
  
Napoleon had pressed him into the carpet before, but somehow he ends up lying on his back on the bed, Illya straddling him and covering his face and shoulders with kisses. Illya undoes Napoleon's buttons one by one, pressing his mouth into each inch of bared flesh as it emerges. Napoleon, underneath him, gasps and twitches, body canting from side to side. His erection presses into Illya's stomach. Illya wants nothing more than to pull it free, cover it with kisses and soft licks until Napoleon's moaning fills the room. But this is their first time discovering each other, and they have all night long. Illya restrains himself. It's far easier than the restraint he's had to employ for so many years now.  
  
There are scars on Napoleon's body, as there are on Illya's, but seeing them exposed one by one fills Illya's heart with a poignant sense of gratitude. Each of these is evidence of the life they lead and the dangers they've faced together. Evidence that Napoleon is still here with him, despite so much. Illya presses his mouth to the line of a scar that stretches like a meteor across the span of Napoleon's stomach. He remembers that stabbing. He almost lost Napoleon that night, and at the hospital afterward, when no one could see, Illya may have let go of a few desperate tears.  
  
"Illya," Napoleon murmurs, "I don't mean to be impatient, but you're--" He gasps as Illya presses a kiss below his navel. "--rather driving me to distraction here."  
  
Illya smiles against his flesh. "So you'd rather I get right to it, then?" He climbs up Napoleon and pushes their groins together. Napoleon groans, his head lolling back on the pillows. "Something like this?"  
  
"Something like," Napoleon echoes, and his hips cant upward to catch Illya off guard. A rush of warmth, and the feel of Napoleon's hardness against his own, drive a desperate moan from Illya's throat. He throws himself forward, kissing Napoleon on the mouth hard, and ruts against him. Napoleon's hands come down to clasp his ass. Ecstatic heat flows in waves through Illya, and for a moment he thinks he'll just stay like this, rubbing against Napoleon, fully clothed, until they make messes of their trousers and can no longer breathe. Damn it, who was teasing whom just now?  
  
"Napoleon." He runs his fingers through Napoleon's hair, as though he were trying to calm an unruly dog. "You do know how to do this?"  
  
"I'm familiar with it, yes." Napoleon steals little kisses between his words. Each one threatens to take Illya's breath away.  
  
"Really?" Illya rolls off him. "In that case, I think you should already know it's much more difficult with clothes on."  
  
"I thought you were taking care of that for me." Napoleon sits up and runs a hand down his unbuttoned shirt.  
  
Illya rolls his eyes. "I can't do everything."  
  
He pulls off his own shirt, just as impatient as Napoleon, but once he's bare-chested Napoleon reaches for him and tugs him backward into an embrace. The warmth of skin on skin is overwhelming, and Illya settles back into Napoleon's arms, eyes fluttering closed. Napoleon presses kiss after soft kiss to his shoulders.  
  
"I've thought about this often," Napoleon murmurs. He strokes Illya's chest, teases a nipple, nibbles at Illya's neck.  
  
Illya fights down a lump that's risen to his throat. "I, too," is all he can answer.  
  
"What _did_ take us so long, Illya?" The laugh in Napoleon's voice feels especially good so close to Illya's skin.  
  
Illya ponders. "Stubbornness," he concludes. "Societal norms. Inability to communicate."  
  
"D, all of the above," Napoleon chimes in. His fingers slip down beneath the waist of Illya's trousers. "I do recall you saying something about no clothes."  
  
"You're the one who slowed us down just now," Illya chides.  
  
"I'm fickle." Those sneaky fingers worm down further, and Illya gasps as they brush his erection. " _Off_ , Mister Kuryakin."  
  
"I'll take that as an order." Illya turns to the side. His mouth meets Napoleon's, and this kiss is sweet with joy.  
  
They strip in silence for a few moments, Napoleon sizing him up as he moves with sweeping glances as hot as hands. Once they are naked, Napoleon opens his arms, and Illya climbs into his lap. It's like being overcome with fever, being clasped in those warm arms and to that strong chest. Illya can feel his own moans vibrating through his body and Napoleon's, and he presses desperate kisses to Napoleon's bare shoulders, breathing heavily against his neck.  
  
Napoleon's cock is sliding tantalizingly against his, pressed between their stomachs. Illya loves it, but he wants more. "Allow me," he whispers, depositing a kiss like a seal on Napoleon's mouth, and reaches for the nightstand.  
  
The next few minute are spent in awed silence as Napoleon watches, eyes huge and hungry. Illya opens himself with a practiced hand, and he knows he's likely raising a thousand questions about what he's done before, and with whom. There will be plenty of time for such questions afterward. For now, Illya needs Napoleon inside him, and that takes preparation. So he works fast and silent, wiping his hand on the underside of the comforter and then taking another handful to slick his own cock and then Napoleon's. At the touch, Napoleon murmurs a low curse, a word Illya's not used to hearing him say. It sounds like music.  
  
He climbs atop Napoleon again and digs his heels into the pillows as he settles down onto him. It doesn't feel anything like Illya was expecting -- warm, of course, and tight and full, but strangely gentle too. Napoleon's holding still, fingers stiff on Illya's waist, and Illya realizes he's trying to keep from thrusting. That's the missing motion, the reason it feels so odd.  
  
So Illya smiles at him. "It's all right," he promises. "You can move."  
  
"Illya--" Napoleon's voice breaks over the name. It's as wrecked as Illya's ever heard him, a glorious erotic echo of how he'd sounded earlier tonight when he threatened Dalia.  
  
"Yes, Napoleon," he murmurs, kissing Napoleon's jaw. "Yes, I'm right here."  
  
Napoleon moves then, canting his hips up into the waiting cavern of Illya's body, and they both hiss with the hot sweet tension of it. Illya tips his chin forward so his head rests against Napoleon's. "Yes," Illya whispers, and yet again, "yes."  
  
Their bodies find the right rhythm quickly, and the bed squeaks beneath them to the same beat. Illya hooks his ankles behind Napoleon and uses the leverage to pump up and down. Napoleon gives little broken cries and rakes his fingers up and down Illya's back -- as far down as the spread cheeks of his ass, as high as his shoulder blades. Every motion sends delicious tingles through Illya's skin.  
  
When Illya feels his back might give out, he eases down to lie on the bed, pulling Napoleon up and over him. A line of worry forms on Napoleon's brow at the change. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Kindly don't stop," replies Illya, a little peevishly, and pumps his hips up. Napoleon catches his breath. Illya bites back a grin of triumph.  
  
On top now, Napoleon thrusts with practiced ease. Each thrust kills Illya a little with heat and pressure, and he moans deliriously, lost in the sensation. When Napoleon leans down, Illya captures his lips and jaw and neck in hot kisses; when he rears up onto his knees and elbows, Illya watches him through bleary eyes. Napoleon, bare and present above him, very nearly glowing with the force of his passion -- it's something Illya never dreamed he'd see with his own eyes.  He grabs at Napoleon's hair, his neck and shoulders. Napoleon thrusts in deep, and Illya arches his back, stars flying through his mind.  
  
Napoleon kisses his mouth, his upturned chin and cheeks. "I won't be able to hold back much longer," he says, a dark tone of warning.  
  
Illya can't help a smile. "Nobody asked you to."  
  
A flash of a smile in return, and then Napoleon's dropping his head to Illya's shoulder, thrusting with vigor. A whisper of Illya's name stretches into a prolonged cry. Napoleon's body locks up, then shakes apart, and Illya can feel the warm flood of release inside him, heart-poundingly exciting. He lies there, breathing shallowly, trying to get hold of his galloping pulse, as Napoleon pulls out and rears back onto his knees.  
  
A moment later Napoleon leans down again, and Illya hears himself gasp before he can even figure out why. That intense dart of sensation -- it's Napoleon leaning forward again, nuzzling his cock with warm lips. Breathing on him. Pressing his face into the crux of Illya's thighs. Illya takes in huge gasps of air. His cock throbs with want. His nerves are so electrified from their lovemaking that he can feel orgasm beginning to push forward from deep in his gut, even just with this teasing.  
  
"Mm," Napoleon hums, vibration that goes into Illya's skin and makes him twitch.  
  
"Napol--" Illya doesn't have enough breath to finish the name. He gulps in more air. "Please."  
  
"Please?" That warm, rich voice, the hint of amusement and the smooth seduction! And Napoleon's lips part ever so slightly and rub a soft kiss into the head of Illya's cock. Illya makes a helpless noise and rolls his hips up into the stimulation.  
  
But Napoleon's kisses stay chaste, soft and closed-mouthed against his skin. Illya goes to pieces. "Yes, damn it, please!" he cries out, grabbing the comforter, unable to control the shudders of want that wrack his body.  
  
"Well. Since you asked so very nicely..." The words seem to linger for minutes. The last syllable is still vibrating in the air when Napoleon takes Illya into his mouth, sudden and unbearably wet and warm. Illya shouts, a noise he's sure his neighbors can hear, and thrashes on the bed. It's like being lit on fire. His whole body is in thrall to that intense, gorgeous sensation at the core of him.  
  
And still, even as the fever grips him, the gentleness of Napoleon's mouth takes him by surprise. He's measured, slow. Each soft suck and wash of tongue is deliberate. He does something to make Illya gasp and twitch, then stops, letting his mouth rest like a warm blanket until the shudders die down. And then it's something else, to set Illya off again.  
  
It's not the kind of torture Illya can stand for long. He whispers blasphemous little words, then loses language and grunts like a madman. Lightning flashes deep inside him and he feels the inevitable roll of thunder, building him up. Napoleon speeds up, just minutely, and Illya can't take it. He arches so hard he's sure his back will break, coming with a shameless cry. Napoleon swallows around him, once and then again, as Illya shudders and murmurs and reaches out to run ardent fingers across the crown of his head.  
  
Afterward, they clean off, take turns in the bathroom and then come back to bed, bare and unashamed and still both smiling.  
  
"I suppose this changes things," Illya muses, resting against Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon's arm is curled around him possessively, and it's the finest feeling in the world.  
  
"Oh, I don't know about that." Napoleon kisses the top of his head. "Perhaps you might be a bit more careful before getting yourself kidnapped from now on. Now that you know how it affects me."  
  
"I'll keep it in mind," Illya says dryly. He turns onto his side, angles his face up toward Napoleon's. "There are many things I want to say to you. Things I've been keeping to myself for the longest time."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
Illya pauses. He still doesn't know which of the million words in his mind to start with. _I love you_ is too simple. _I've dreamed of this for years_ has already been said. _I know this won't stop your affairs with women_ has no place in this bed tonight. And every one of the thousands of others that come to mind has its own caveat, its own reason why it can't be first.  
  
Napoleon watches the emotions roll over his face and smiles that beautiful, generous smile. "Then again," he says, "maybe it's best not to rush. We have the rest of our lives."  
  
Illya's heart thumps. "Do you mean that?"  
  
Napoleon leans in to kiss him. "Of course."  
  
Tears threaten to well up in Illya's eyes. Now he has another million words he wants to say. But Napoleon's right. They can wait.    
  



End file.
